


Unravel

by bauble



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-23 05:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14927651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Written for Inception Big Bang in collaboration with yjudaes.





	1. The Conservatory

**Author's Note:**

> _Cluedo_ (Clue in North America) is a popular murder/mystery-themed deduction board game. 
> 
> The object of the game is for players to strategically move around the game board (representing the rooms of a mansion), in the guise of one of the game's six characters. They collect clues from which to deduce which suspect murdered the game's perpetual victim, Dr. Black (Mr. Boddy in North American versions), with which weapon and in what room.  
> \- Wikipedia

The dream is set inside an opulent mansion. There are two storeys and numerous rooms, detailed down to the library bookshelves filled with novels in multiple languages. There's nothing old world about the elegance of the setting, though; this is no faux-European manor, but rather a modern American take on luxury, more in the vein of Frank Lloyd Wright than an English castle. 

They're seated in two armchairs in front of a fireplace, highball glasses in hand while well-dressed party guests mingle and chatter around them. Arthur's wearing a pinstriped suit, jacket unbuttoned and no tie, while Eames is wearing his outfit from dinner (vertical striped coral button-down and chinos).

"The idea is to create a series of fully immersive, pre-programmed dream scenarios that clients can plug into," Arthur says, smiling politely at the butler who refreshes his glass. "We create a setting, a storyline, and allow clients to play through the story."

"So it's a game?" Eames says as several projections in a far corner of the room burst into laughter. "And clients pay to play within the dream?"

"Exactly. Depending on the dream scenario, a client could even engage in the dream with a partner or a group of their friends." Across the room, a piercing scream silences the crowd, and all the projections turn towards the screamer. "Shall we?" Arthur asks, inclining his head.

They stand and make their way through the crowd of murmuring projections to where a dead body lies, blood pooling around the head. "It's Mr. Boddy," one of the projections whispers. "Someone murdered Mr. Boddy!"

"It has to be someone in the building," another projection chimes in. "I spoke with him only twenty minutes ago!"

"The police have been called," the butler says. "Everyone must wait for them to arrive. No one is to leave."

As Eames and Arthur walk away from the hubbub, Eames says, "So the client gets to solve a murder mystery?"

"Exactly." Arthur beams. "There are other storylines that I was thinking about exploring, but this is one I think most people will be familiar with and understand. Plus, there's the flexibility of creating different themes. We can set it in Victorian England and play at being Sherlock Holmes or set it in Hollywood where everyone at the party is a celebrity—whatever clients might be interested in."

"Fascinating," Eames says as the lights flicker ominously above them. "You're trying to make this into an ongoing business, then. Set up shop?"

"If I can, yeah," Arthur says. "Dream entertainment isn't illegal in the US and I figured maybe—this might be a way to make some steady income without having to fly all over the world. As much, anyway."

"Settling down?" Eames has known Arthur for close to five years, observed his transition from trigger-happy ex-Marine desperate to prove himself to someone more relaxed and yet precise, confident in his own skin. Throughout the years, the one constant Eames had always known to be true of Arthur was his wanderlust, his general restlessness. But perhaps this, too, is changing.

"Thought it might be a nice change of pace, staying put for a while," Arthur says. "I don't know if it's for good, but I'd like to stick around an apartment long enough to unpack my moving boxes."

"Poor Mr. Boddy," Eames says with a mournful glance at the projection on the ground. "Sacrificed at the altar of your homemaking ambition."

"I'm pretty ruthless when it comes to getting what I want," Arthur agrees, bumping his shoulder against Eames' companionably. "I could do the architecture, the design, the basic storyline. I have a chemist lined up—Rosalina, I don't know if you've met her, she mostly does local work in the US. Anyway, she's been developing some custom cocktails that could help keep the dream more stable and improve our control over projections."

"And what will my role be?"

"You can stand around my office looking pretty," Arthur deadpans. "Maybe feed me grapes and dab my sweat away after a long day of work."

"Then you're offering me a position which is purely ornamental?" Eames hooks a finger into Arthur's waistband to pull him closer. "How much is the pay again?"

"Is the prospect of feeding me grapes and giving me sponge-baths not payment enough?" Arthur curls his arms around Eames' waist. "You drive hard bargains, Mr. Eames."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to be taken advantage of by a smooth-talking American," Eames murmurs as he leans in to give Arthur's mouth a little nip. In the background, a few of the projections leer and catcall. "I expect to be properly compensated for any services rendered."

"I suppose I could give you a percentage of the profits after we get our first paying customers." Arthur kisses Eames on the tip of his nose and then pulls back a few inches. "If we upgrade your role to something that isn't entirely decorative."

"You're going to put me to work in a coal-mine, aren't you?" Eames says. "This is all some elaborate trap."

"While I think you'd make an excellent miner, I was hoping we could play to some of your more unique talents," Arthur says. "Your job would be working with the projections, the characters in the story. No one can control projections in dreamshare like you can, and you could bring them to life for the clients. I was also thinking you should forge the murderer in the dream."

"So it was me dressed as Ms. Scarlett, in the Billiard Room, with the candlestick," Eames concludes.

"Or you as Professor Plum in the library with the rope," Arthur says. "We can develop multiple storylines, even offer replayability with a different set of circumstances and murderers to clients who might be interested. It's not infinite possibility, but it's a good number."

"With a set number of variables to control." Eames glances round the well-appointed room and nods. "Fascinating."

"Yeah?" Arthur smiles tentatively. "Really? You're not just saying that for the sake of a handjob?"

"While I'll never say no to a handjob, I will say no to an idea I don't care for," Eames says. "This is interesting. There are dream dens and dream brothels, but less seedy entertainment in a more structured environment for a limited time period—I can think of several clients I've worked with who might be interested in this."

Arthur smiles so broadly dimples appear in both his cheeks. "I'll see you State-side, then."

* * * * * 

The office space Arthur rents is clean, in a generic high-rise building in an acceptable but decidedly less than trendy neighborhood of San Francisco. It's located on the fourth floor and contains all the usual essentials: a small waiting area, several offices of varying sizes, a break room, and a single bathroom. Every room has a door with a lock—not enough to keep anyone particularly determined at bay, but enough to buy a few seconds to escape if need be.

There's already furniture set up when Eames arrives: lamps, desks, chairs—all ergonomic, but more spare than luxurious.

The one notable indulgence, however, is the set of blue chaise lounges set up in the largest office. There's a small end table between the chairs where the PASIV is clearly meant to go, and the chairs resemble neither mass market retail styles nor high end designer styles. They seem nearly anachronistic in the modern, minimalist setting they're currently occupying.

"No food or drinks in this room," Arthur says. "I had those custom-made and upholstered."

"Not even water?" Eames asks, not so much for the answer as for Arthur's reaction. No matter how much time has passes, he apparently will never tire of testing Arthur's boundaries.

"No exceptions," Arthur says, and adds, "And no sex in here, either during or after hours."

"So the loo during lunch, then?" Eames asks as a hand drifts down the curve of Arthur's bottom.

"While we're here, we should really focus on work, Eames." Arthur's voice is as somber as it ever is, but he makes no move to remove Eames' wandering hand. 

Given that Eames has worked in environs ranging from huts in the desert to abandoned nuclear bunkers, he certainly hasn't any complaints. He's done office work before, but this will mark the first time he'll be doing it without any ulterior motive. The first time he'll be doing it as himself.


	2. The Ballroom

"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I brought one of each," Eames says as he sets a box of doughnuts down on Arthur's desk. He's worked in dozens of offices; he knows the script for winning over the hearts of coworkers.

"Oh." Arthur's delight is radiant, startling. "I like the ones with the jelly filling."

"Ah." There's an expectant pause from Arthur and Eames adds, "I like the ones with the icing and sprinkles."

"They do look good," Arthur replies, face already covered in sugar. "And thanks, by the way."

"You're welcome." Then, to restrain himself from the impulse to kiss Arthur's powdery cheeks, Eames says, "Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me?"

"I don't," Arthur says. "But it was probably something dickish."

"You said, and I quote, 'get the fuck out of my dream, asshole.'"

Arthur winces, then chuckles. "Sorry about that. I had a lot of pent-up aggression that manifested in general fuckheadery."

"At least you acknowledge it openly now," Eames says, taking a bite out of his own doughnut.

"And you were just a ray of sunshine back then, too, huh?" Arthur softens the words with a smile. "Always skulking around, brooding in the corners—"

"I didn't—" Eames stops. "I did not skulk. I brooded in the full light of day."

Arthur chuckles. "What were you always so somber about anyway? I don't think I saw you smile once in the first two years we knew each other."

"Well, you did introduce yourself by shooting me in the neck and telling me to fuck off."

"That was a tranquilizer dart and, to be fair, you were there to try to steal my mark's secrets."

"A mistake I learned never to repeat," Eames says, rubbing his neck where he can still remember the dart sinking in. 

The truth is, when they first met Eames had been coming off a job playing a violent ex-convict, complete with hideous prison tattoos and a hair trigger for hostility. Working with a man who'd shot him required a radical shift in a short period of time. When emerging from deep cover as an extreme persona, sometimes there was… leakage.

"Well, hey. We've both grown, and here we are." Arthur's hand skims across the desk surface to rest near Eames' leg, pinky barely touching in a near-violation of their no-PDA-in-the-office rule.

"Yes," Eames says, staring down at his half-eaten doughnut. "Here we are."

* * * * * 

There's a knock on Eames' office door. He looks away from the glare of his computer screen, abruptly and uncomfortably aware of the crick in his neck, the tension where he's been hunching his shoulders over the keyboard for the better half of the day. He'd forgotten quite how glamorous deskwork could be. "Come in," Eames calls out.

"Hey." Arthur opens the door a crack and pokes his head in. "This a good time? I could come back later."

Eames glances at the numbers at the lower half of his screen; he's been drafting this bloody letter for the better half of two hours. "No, this is fine. I could use the break."

Arthur crosses the room to stand in front of Eames' desk, holding out a box of paperclips. "These are for you."

Eames blinks, takes them. Normally, he's a master of social nuance, able to divine meaning from the subtlest interactions. But there's something about Arthur that always leaves him flat-footed, unable to do anything but gape. It's abominable, really. "Thank you." 

"No problem." Arthur's arms drop, fingertips brushing lightly across the surface of Eames' desk. "I was wondering if you were in the mood for some greasy Chinese takeout tonight. I found a place that uses a shit ton of MSG and delivers."

Eames leans back in his chair, tension in his back easing already. "Not interested in the real thing, then?"

"We can do authentic Cantonese cuisine another night," Arthur says. "Today, I've got a craving for the saltiest, most Americanized General Tso's chicken you can find in the state."

"You've won me over with your mouthwatering descriptors," Eames says, and resists the impulse to catch Arthur's hand in his and kiss it. They'd agreed to keep their interactions strictly professional while in the office. A rule Eames has been finding harder to adhere to, as of late.

The smile on Arthur's face is dazzling, but slips as he deliberates over his next words. "I was also wondering if I could ask—for a favor."

"If it's a kidney, I'm afraid I only have one left and I'm partial to keeping it."

Arthur smiles, but shakes his head, eyes stubbornly serious. "I got my apartment painted recently and the smell is—well, it's been driving me crazy. I've been trying to air the place out, but since it's been so damp lately…"

Eames raises his eyebrows, waiting for Arthur to reach his actual request.

"Could I crash with you for a night or two? Until the paint settles and the smell fades," Arthur says, words hurried. "I know it's a lot, since we work together and eat dinner together and—well. I can always get a hotel room if you think it might be an overload. I'd understand."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather a piece of my kidney?" Eames jokes, lamely, and is rewarded with a strained smile from Arthur. "I mean—yes. You should stay over. There's no need for a hotel room when I have a perfectly serviceable flat."

"You're sure?" Arthur asks, seeming hopeful. "I know you like your space. I don't want to intrude."

Eames wonders when Arthur started knowing him well enough to guess at his objections, much less overcome them. "As long as you're not expecting the height of luxury for the duration of your stay, I think I'll manage."

"You mean you're not going to cater to my champagne taste?" Arthur inquires. "No caviar after our Chinese takeout feast?"

"I may have some stale biscuits and a bottle of vinegar that used to be red wine," Eames replies. "You are welcome to both."

"Appetizing," Arthur says dryly, but seems chuffed anyway.

* * * * * 

They leave work together early, Arthur swinging by Eames' office with an already packed overnight bag. He follows Eames to his leased sedan.

"I guess I get to finally see your inner sanctum." Arthur puts a warm hand on Eames' knee.

"I didn't do any of the decorating," Eames says. "The apartment came furnished. Nothing there is mine except for the clothing and the linens."

"What colors are the linens?"

"White."

"Well." Arthur pauses. "Clutter is overrated anyway." 

So are permanent homes, Eames thinks. He doesn't say as much because Arthur's hand is creeping up the inside of Eames' thigh and he'd rather not dissuade it.

They make it to a dark corner of the parking deck attached to Eames' apartment complex without any accidents, Arthur allowing Eames to shimmy out of his trousers halfway before bending over to take his dick in his mouth.

After a lovely blowjob and reciprocating handjob, Eames leads Arthur to his flat, waiting for comment or judgment. Neither seem to be forthcoming, however. Arthur simply drops his bag in the bedroom and asks, "You ready for dinner?"

They place an order, sipping glasses of the Malbec Arthur had the foresight to pack and chat casually about the day while waiting for the food. One thing Eames hadn't expected from Arthur was the amount of rather straightforward talking they'd do; Arthur, who'd been, in the past, reserved to the point of being laconic, now seemingly enjoys conversing with Eames as much as he enjoys shagging him.

Is this what it's like? Eames wonders as Arthur pays for the delivery and unpacks a vast fleet of paper cartons. Is this why people bother with something besides sex?

"They only gave us one pair of chopsticks," Arthur says, frowning as he peers into the bottom of the plastic bag. "You want it?"

"I have forks," Eames replies, opening the silverware drawer. 

"I'm okay with the chopsticks," Arthur says. "You sure you don't want them?"

"Positive," Eames replies as he takes a seat at the kitchen table. He's eaten dinner with Arthur hundreds of times before, but this is the first in his home—temporary though it may be. It's not disagreeable, not quite comfortable.

The flow of conversation continues through their oil-soaked dinner, drifting from work topics to philosophy to fashion. Arthur's in the midst of experimenting with various tie widths after reading an article in _GQ_ about it, and Eames is studying the pages of _Vanity Fair_ for Ms. Scarlett's dream wardrobe. They agree that Emerald is an excellent pick for Pantone color of the year.

After devouring most of the admittedly delicious chicken, Arthur reaches across the wasteland of empty containers for a fortune cookie. He breaks it open and huffs a small laugh. "Two secrets to a happy marriage: a sense of humor and a short memory."

There's something in Arthur's voice that causes Eames to look up from his own cookie ('If you wish to know the mind of a man, listen to his words.') "You've been married before?"

"Yeah," Arthur says, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "Married once, engaged twice."

"Ah." Eames isn't entirely sure what else to say in response to that. That Arthur's the marrying kind isn't entirely a surprise. Not Eames' particular bailiwick, but he's been involved in 'relationships' of sorts for long cons before. He knows how they go--in theory, at any rate.

"The first time was on the playground underneath the slide," Arthur says. "Suzie Chen proposed to me with a blue rubber band. Blue's my favorite color, so I said yes. It all ended in tragedy when I saw her giving two blue rubber bands to Levy Atkinson a week later, but it was good while it lasted. She did teach me some valuable lessons about getting to know someone a while before you commit."

"And the second?" Eames asks. "Were more office supplies involved?"

"Nah, that ring was real." Arthur looks down for a moment. "I thought I would be with him for the long run."

"Oh," Eames says. Hundreds of people have told him stories of heartbreak, some of whom he eventually wound up sleeping with. But this is the first time he's ever been rendered paralyzed by an emotion so foreign it takes a moment to identify: jealousy. "Why did it end?" he asks before he can stop himself.

"We were young and ignored the things we didn't want to see. Avoided talking about things that shouldn't have been problems, but ended up being problems because we'd avoided them for so long." Arthur shakes his head. "It's funny, because we should have known better than anyone else how unaddressed issues fester."

"He works in dreamshare, then?" Eames says. There's a tremulous quality in his own voice which he doesn't care for. Not that he's enjoying the sound of anything much in this conversation at all. 

"Yeah, he's an academic. Worked only on the legal side and mostly as a consultant, not really in the field." Arthur, thankfully, doesn't seem to notice. "Anyway. You want the last wonton?"

Eames shakes his head and gestures for Arthur to take it. In all his years, Eames has felt envious on several occasions, bitter on others, but this uneasy, instantaneous dislike of a stranger is new. 

As he watches Arthur tear into the wonton with visible pleasure, he wonders what this man might be like. A sweet, mild-mannered professor with an absent-minded streak, perhaps, and more interest in his research than the real world. Nothing like Eames, at the end of the day.

* * * * * 

Arthur emerges from the shower, nude except for the towel he's drying his hair with. Eames snaps out of the drowsy state he'd been in, awake and enraptured by the view. Arthur's body is familiar but still erotic, relatively little hair to soften the chiseled edges. Eames supposes that in time he will grow used to it, perhaps even come to take it for granted—but he's nowhere near that point yet.

"Still up?" Arthur makes no attempt to cover up, clearly enjoys the attention.

"Enough," Eames replies, not bothering with coyness. He could rally for another round of sex, but he's not anxious for it. Judging by the soft state of his cock, Arthur's not either.

"Do you snore?" Arthur drapes the towel over the back of a chair and slips beneath the covers. "I've never seen you in a non-PASIV induced sleep before."

"It's difficult for me to relax enough in a foreign bed," Eames says, which is most of the reason why he's never stayed the night in Arthur's flat. The other reasons he'd honestly prefer not to contemplate.

"I thought for the first month you were just blowing me off." Arthur sidles up to Eames on the mattress, not quite touching. "But then you kept calling and I figured maybe not."

"You were worried?" Eames asks as though the thought had never crossed his mind. But of course it had: as soon as Arthur had fallen asleep, Eames' thoughts had turned to the possibility of disappearing for a few months, resurfacing only after he was certain Arthur had given up looking. He'd considered the idea with some seriousness, but the notion of not seeing Arthur for all those months, not hearing his crisp American consonants and sly, unexpected humor—it had somehow seemed singularly unappealing.

And so he'd kissed Arthur goodbye instead of slipping out unnoticed, and called to say hello the following afternoon.

"I'm guessing you aren't a fan of cuddling, huh?" Arthur asks, wry, with a thread of hopefulness underneath.

"I don't mind it," Eames says, but in truth, he doesn't know. Most of his romantic affairs involve sweaty, athletic sex that segue into exhausted sleep for his partners and satisfied walks home for him. He's spent hours cuddling marks while deep in character, but that's a rather different affair than--this.

"Let me know if you want me to back off." Arthur throws a leg over Eames' own and an arm across his waist. His hair sticks to Eames' shoulder, wet and slightly chilly.

Eames reaches out, intending to rearrange Arthur's hair to avoid dripping and ends up caressing his cheek instead, fingertips gliding over the curve of his jaw. These gestures are familiar, echoes of time spent with marks from dozens of jobs, and yet--

Arthur kisses Eames' shoulder. "Wake me when you want to get up tomorrow. I didn't set my alarm." 

"What if I were to leave you here?" Eames asks, not sleepy at all.

"Don't," is Arthur's reply as his breathing slows and steadies. Eames listens to the sound of it for a long time afterwards.

* * * * * 

"You're awake," Arthur says after he returns from taking a piss. The red numbers on the clock read three AM. "Did I wake you up?"

"No, I've been—" Eames pauses. "Couldn't sleep."

Arthur sits down on the edge of the bed. "Do you want me to hit the couch?"

"That's not necessary." Eames rakes his fingers through his hair, frustrated. "I've never spent the night with anyone besides a mark before, and even if I nod off with them I keep one eye open."

"You've run some pretty long cons," Arthur says, easing onto the mattress, legs above the sheets. "When'd you sleep during that time?"

"Cat naps here and there when I could manage it. Hard to feel secure enough for a full night's rest."

"I had insomnia as a kid." Arthur props himself up by the headboard and folds his hands in his lap. "Used to drive my mother crazy but I couldn't help it. We were constantly on the road and I never felt like there was a place for me to stake out as my own."

"You traveled a great deal when you were young?" Eames asks, eager to focus on something else besides himself.

"Yup. I was a military brat," Arthur replies. "My mother became a lieutenant colonel and it was pretty much inevitable that I would follow in her footsteps, one way or another."

"And your father?"

"Don't know, don't really care." Eames studies Arthur, looking for anything in his expression that might contradict with his casual tone, but oddly, there's no disagreement; Arthur seems at peace with the matter. "Don't get me wrong, I spent a lot of my teenage years trying to find out. But I realized after a certain point that it wasn't going to tell me anything I didn't already know. Plus, around sixteen was when I discovered the wonders of sex and pretty much lost interest in anything else."

"Your mother never said?"

"No. And it could have been anybody, anywhere." Arthur shrugs. "I think she was a little surprised I came out so scrawny, though. I guess my father was a bigger guy."

"I like the shape you are," Eames says, unthinkingly. He meant to say: I don't think you're scrawny.

"Thanks." Arthur smiles as he slides down to lie beside Eames. "I like your shape too."

Eames stares up at the ceiling, once again at a loss for words. He's spent his entire life being told by strangers and companions and bedmates how beautiful he is. He doesn't know why it feels different when Arthur says it.

"Did you know your mother?" Arthur asks.

It takes Eames a moment to summon the answer to that. Pillow talk is something he's familiar with, but he usually has a prepared backstory to reveal: a tragic childhood of Dickensian proportions, or a staid one, dull and easy. Now all he has is the truth. "No," he says. "She had a rare heart condition that was aggravated by a difficult pregnancy. She died shortly after giving birth to me."

Arthur doesn't bother with noises of sympathy, dark eyes curious and thoughtful. "What about your dad?"

"He—I saw him occasionally." Eames tries to remember the last time he saw his father, but it's been years. Maybe even a decade, now. "Never possessed much interest in children despite a prodigious ability to conceive them."

"Daddy issues—gotta love them," Arthur says, deadpan, and Eames cracks a smile.

"Were you close?" Eames says, eager to turn the conversational focus away. "You and your mother?"

"Not really. She did the best that she could, but she wasn't really the maternal type. It was more my uncle—her brother—that kept an eye on me."

"What was he like?"

"Gay long before I knew what that meant. Looking back on it, he might as well have been carrying a neon sign. He was the one that taught me you are what you wear." Arthur chuckles softly. "Took me to buy my first suit on my sixteenth birthday. I was so pissed—I wanted a dirt-bike."

Eames chuckles. "A dirt-bike, eh?"

"I was such a little punk." Arthur grins. "I wore this beat up old military coat I found somewhere, combat boots, and grew my hair down my back. I thought I was the shit but really, I looked like the ridiculous teenager I was."

"Here you are, shattering all my illusions about your fresh-faced youth." Eames tries to imagine Arthur as the pimply teenager with an awkward rat-tail, and the image is somehow endearing.

"And I bet you went to private—sorry, _public_ —school and wore a proper uniform with shined shoes," Arthur says, reaching forward to touch Eames' bicep.

"I did wear a uniform, this is true," Eames says, waiting to see where this is going.

"And did you sleep in the same dorms with, you know—"

"With other sexually charged young men?" Eames supplies. "Engaging in all sorts of blatantly homoerotic horseplay?"

"Well." Arthur coughs, but doesn't protest as his hand drifts lower, down to Eames' hip. 

"Oh, I was terribly naughty," Eames says, finally catching on. "Always getting into scraps with the headmaster, my classmates…"

"Was there, uh." Arthur coughs again and reddens slightly. "I mean, was your first, um—"

"I received my first handjob before my first kiss."

"Wow," Arthur breathes out. "So someone just—"

"Stuck his hand down my trousers halfway through a film." Eames guides Arthur's hand beneath the waistband of his boxers to demonstrate. "First time anyone had ever touched me down there."

Arthur kisses Eames' neck as he begins to stroke Eames' cock. "What was it like?"

"Clumsy. Fumbling. Best thing I'd ever felt in my entire life up to that point," Eames says as his cock begins harden. "I could scarcely believe it was happening."

"Did you return the favor?"

"Mmm, later. Far later than was probably polite," Eames says. "I was so overwhelmed at the time that I completely forgot until days later."

Arthur chuckles. "You found a way to make it up to him?"

"I did. He was most appreciative," Eames replies, breathing growing heavy and short with Arthur's warm hand and affectionate kisses.

"I'll bet." Arthur kisses deeply, thoroughly, as his hand works Eames with an expertise gained from their months together. Months, Eames thinks—how did that happen?

"Again?" Eames asks, not displeased when Arthur pulls back the covers and bends down to nose around Eames' groin.

"You've got a great dick," Arthur says simply, and without any self-consciousness at all. If it's only a line, it's a damn effective one.

Eames strokes Arthur's hair as he comes for the second time that day. He lets out a startled laugh when Arthur tickles his side.

"You sleepy now?" Arthur asks, propping his chin on Eames' lower belly.

"A bit," Eames replies. "Was this all part of a larger scheme?"

"Maybe." Arthur moves to stretch out on top of Eames, half-hard cock bumping against Eames' hip. "Did it work?"

"Can't tell yet," Eames says, honestly. "But aren't you tired?"

"Sort of, but I'm actually kind of looking forward to sleeping in for once. It's been a while." Arthur winks. "We can call out sick tomorrow. I got an in with the boss."

"I don't know about that," Eames says. "I heard he's a real slave-driver."

"Really? Because I heard he's funny and brilliant and banging the hottest guy in the office."

"While I can't argue with the last bit, I find the first two—"

"Right on target. Undeniable," Arthur says. In the yellow-orange streaks of light from the streetlamps coming through the blinds, his smile is completely disarming.

"Precisely," Eames says as he takes Arthur's cock in hand. Arthur laughs, and grins, and meets Eames' eyes fearlessly. In the end, it's Eames who looks away. 

"Are there any photos of you at that age?" Arthur asks after they've cleaned up. He's lying on his side a few inches away, idly playing with Eames' chest hair. It tickles. "When you were in school, I mean."

"All photos of me under the age of twenty-one were mysteriously destroyed in a random act of arson a decade ago," Eames says. "Along with every existing government record."

"Oh," Arthur says, and tries to cover his visible disappointment by adding, "I think I remember that from the background search."

"Searching for fresh fodder for a wank, hm?" 

"Yep," Arthur deadpans. "In between seeing you every day, and fucking you every other one, I'd also like to jerk off to a photo of you in between."

Eames stretches his arms out, chest puffing. "Yes, as I expected. There's simply never enough of me to satisfy your desperate longing."

Arthur grins, but then grows serious again. "It's too bad. I would have liked to have seen it."

"Really?" Eames glances at Arthur, but he doesn't seem to be joking. "Why?"

"Because it's a part of who you are. Who you were, I mean." Arthur traces the bristly stubble along the edge of Eames' jaw. "I like finding out more about you. The man behind all the masks."

Why? Eames wants to ask again, but instead he says, "There's always the PASIV."

"You'd be up for that?"

"I've never tried this scenario specifically, but I don't see why it wouldn't be feasible."

Arthur smiles, bright and joyful. Eames feels a stirring within him—not raw animal lust, or even the high of reckless infatuation he's grown familiar with over the years—but something quieter, soft and warm. It's a feeling that's been coming on more and more often in the past few months, unbidden but not entirely unwelcome.

* * * * * 

Eames opens his eyes to a classroom. There are desks, a chalkboard, and large gothic windows on either side, lending some architectural flare to the scene. It bears only the most passing resemblance to anything he might have seen growing up, but the idea is clear enough and in some ways he's glad for it. Recreating and reliving memories are easy ways to begin blurring the line between dreams and reality.

At the head of the classroom is Arthur, clad in spectacles, a tweed waistcoat and jacket with patches on the elbows. He's bent over the desk, pen scratching away as his brow furrows in concentration. He hasn't noticed Eames yet.

Eames holds up a mirror in his hand and watches his reflection shift easily enough, cheeks filling and smoothing, jaw softening. He allows his body to grow leaner but retains the more fully developed musculature he'd only reached in his early twenties; that and the lack of facial blemishes are an exercise of his artistic license.

Eames stands and approaches Arthur, who is still writing, reaching up to adjust the spectacles on his nose every few minutes. It isn't until Eames is right beside the desk that Arthur looks up.

"Eames," Arthur says. "Can I help you with something?"

Eames glides along the side of the desk, coming to rest near Arthur with a hip cocked. "I have a few questions, Professor King, if you've a moment."

Arthur puts down his pen. "Of course."

Eames takes a deep breath and feels himself begin to sink into character, the teenager he once was. If he'd met Arthur as a youth, he would have found him stunningly handsome: all boyish good looks grounded by a serious, intellectual air. He'd have been fascinated by Arthur's American-ness as well—those perfect white teeth, his sharp accent—nothing at all like the fat tourists he'd met before. Arthur would be exciting, exotic, a fantasy to wank to for weeks.

"I had a question about the lesson today," Eames says, watching Professor King's hands go still on the desk. He has long, elegant fingers, and Eames wonders what they'd taste like if he took one into his mouth. He wonders whether the professor would like that.

"About The Great Gatsby?"

"Yes. It's about what Daisy saw in Gatsby. She met him twice, in two very different circumstances," Eames says. "What was it that drew her in?"

"That's an intriguing question, Eames," Professor King says, voice thoughtful, not mocking like Eames had been half-worried about. "I suppose she probably found him compelling for the same reasons the narrator and readers find him compelling—in many ways, he's the embodiment of the American dream."

"Do you mean the idea that someone could become anything they want?" Eames says, inching closer to the professor and hoping he doesn't notice.

"Gatsby did whatever it took to achieve his life's ambitions," Professor King says, eyes huge and dark behind his glasses. "Most people are afraid to take the kind of risks he did, even if that means staying stuck in the rut they were born in forever."

Eames shifts, ostensibly to stretch his legs, and a thigh grazes against one of Professor King's. He quietly thrills when the professor doesn't move away. "And what about you, Professor? Are you afraid?"

The professor swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. Eames wants to lick and suck all around it. "I've got nothing to be scared of."

"No?" Eames lowers his eyes and peers up at the professor through his lashes. 

"Mr. Eames," Professor King starts, but doesn't finish, voice faltering when Eames licks his lower lip.

Feeling reckless, Eames reaches out to take Professor King's spectacles off, careful not to allow his hands to come in contact with the professor's hair, his face. Eames gives the lenses a quick polish with the edge of his shirt and puts them on himself, blinking owlishly before the world comes back into focus. 

Without the glasses, the professor looks young—young enough to pass as a student from a distance. He's so fit Eames feels his stomach turn over in arousal.

"Have you ever been in love, Professor?" Eames asks, touching the line of the professor's lapel, smoothing it down.

"I'm not sure that's an appropriate topic of conversation between teacher and student," Professor King replies, voice raspy. He hasn't moved, seems almost frozen in his seat.

"Would you ever do something like Gatsby did for Daisy?" Eames trails his fingertips up Professor King's neck, skin vulnerable and warm.

"I think I'd prefer someone who wants me the way I am." The professor catches his hand. Eames prepares to be pushed away, for everything to come crashing down around him, but instead the professor pulls him closer. "Wouldn't you?"

"Most people bore me," Eames says, fighting to keep his voice level. Aside from the hand Professor King still holds, they're not touching. His grip is firm, though, firmer than Eames expected. "I can't imagine wanting anyone for years and years."

Professor King smiles. "You're young yet. Give it time."

"Ugh." Eames rolls his eyes. "Everyone always says that, as if it's supposed to be some great truth. I don't need time—I know what I like."

The professor seems more amused by this outburst than anything. He's running his thumbs over Eames' knuckles now. "Do you?"

"I know what I want right now." Eames takes a step forward, one thigh sliding in between the professor's spread legs. "I don't know whether I'll want it tomorrow. I don't care if I do."

"And what if I don't care about what you want?" the professor asks. He's studying Eames calmly, as if he were in complete control of the situation. He's not, though—Eames can feel the hard dig of an erection against his thigh.

"Of course you care." Eames rolls his hips slowly against the professor's leg, sees the flicker of pure lust that crosses his face. "I always get what I want."

"That's funny." Professor King snakes a surprisingly strong arm around Eames' waist and drags him in, knocking the breath from him. "So do I."

It all proceeds quickly after that: the professor guiding Eames to his knees, easing his beautiful cock out of his wool trousers. It's heavy and hard, large enough to make Eames' jaw ache but he doesn't care, not with Professor King murmuring soft praise above him. He tries to touch himself but the professor stops him, tells him to stroke his bollocks instead, hold them so gently. Eames complies, and it's worth it to hear the sharp intake of the professor's breath, the way his thighs tremble on either side of Eames' head.

Eames comes first, without so much as a hand on his cock. He comes with Professor King's dick deep in his mouth, moans his way through orgasm and nearly chokes when that causes the professor to come. Professor King makes it up to him, though, when he bends Eames over the desk and fucks him surely, confidently. He lasts for what seems like forever, coaxing another orgasm from Eames before really starting to go hard.

Eames comes and comes, so many times it should ache. It's wonderful.

* * * * * 

"Wow," Arthur says when they wake up.

"Good?" Eames asks. He sits up slowly, more disoriented at waking up in his older body (stiffness, aches, and pains) than he cares to admit.

Arthur gets up and kneels by Eames' chaise lounge. "Amazing." He takes Eames' jaw in hand and kisses him. "You're amazing."

* * * * * 

They leave the office shortly thereafter. Eames takes out his car keys and starts to peel away when Arthur says, "Hey, do you want dinner? I was thinking about making some pasta back at mine."

Eames is in a good mood and hungry enough, so he agrees. They walk back to Arthur's flat together—only about a twenty minute walk, convenient—and Arthur sets the linguine to boil. He's using jarred sauce, and puts Eames to work grating the mozzarella, opening the Merlot.

They have pasta and salad at the dining table, which looks like it was ordered straight out of a furniture catalogue a week ago. It probably was, but the apartment's starting to accumulate more personality: a stack of mail on the counter, a few paintings on the wall. One looks to be an original Bacon.

They chat about weather, politics, and debate amicably about the possibility of remote dreamshare. Eames thinks that while everyone currently claiming to be able to invade dreams from afar is a quack, one day the technology will make it possible. Arthur, stubbornly and predictably, falls into the naysayers' camp, arguing that there are limits to everything.

At the end of the meal, Eames puts the dishes away in the stainless steel dishwasher while Arthur puzzles over the controls. 

"I've never actually, uh, used this before," Arthur admits as he breaks the seal on a package of dish detergent.

"You've been hand-washing your dishes all these months?" Eames asks, because Arthur's sink is empty. He doesn't see a drying rack.

"I haven't—" Arthur coughs. "This is my first time using actual china and glasses since I've moved in." Eames watches in bemusement as Arthur opens a cabinet, which is thoroughly stocked with paper plates and plastic utensils. Such things shouldn't be charming.

After they've got the dishwasher up and running, Arthur asks, "Do you want to go to bed?" 

Eames is loose-limbed and sleepy from the wine, but he's fairly sure he can muster a somewhat coordinated blowjob, or savor the weight of Arthur moving on top of him. He thinks he might enjoy that, lying back and waiting for Arthur to make him come however he'd like.

They disrobe and kiss, lazy, aimless, but Arthur declines to go further.

"Let's go to sleep," he says, guiding Eames' head to his own pillow.

Eames looks over at Arthur, uncertain. They're in bed together and they're not going to have sex?

"Thank you." Arthur's lying on his side of the bed, a respectful distance from Eames. "For earlier. It was a lot of fun."

"Yes," Eames says, but it sounds odd in his throat. He wonders if—but no, Arthur would tell him if he was bored already, wouldn't he? 

Eames turns over onto his side and takes in the surroundings, listens to the sound of quiet breathing behind him. 

Arthur clears his throat. "Will you…"

Eames looks back over his shoulder. It's dark in the room, difficult to see. "Yes?"

"Will you be here when I wake up?" Arthur's voice wavers slightly. "Because I'd—I'd like it if you were."

"I." Eames considers the possibility of staying here an entire night, defenseless and in unfamiliar territory. It makes his toes twitch with uneasiness, restlessness. "I'll try."

Eames doesn't sleep for a long time after that. From the sound of his breathing, Arthur doesn't either.

* * * * * 

Eames dreams about one of his former marks.

Natural dreams are few and far between after so many years of Somnacin exposure, but they still occur every now and again for Eames. 

It's thinking about his prior marks that's the true rarity. He notes both these facts vaguely as he moves through the dream, halfway lucid though not fully in control.

The mark is a woman who'd been in her early thirties when Eames knew her, rather plain but keenly intelligent. She'd been suspicious in the early days of their courtship, but like all his marks, had eventually fallen in love with the man he'd pretended to be. Eames created the persona especially for her, after all.

She discovered his true purpose shortly before he fled, pulling together all the pieces as she watched him pack. He dreams of that confrontation, her tear-stained face and the way she asked, "Who are you?" 

"Does it matter, really?" He tried to be kind. "After this, I'll be someone else. And someone else, after him."

Nothing said made any difference in the end, of course. She shouted, she sobbed, she begged him to reconsider. Most of it has disappeared into the hazy past, but there's one thing that surfaces in the dream, perfectly articulated in her angry voice, "I bet you're nothing at all when you're not pretending to be someone else."

It was intended to hurt, but he hadn't been, not at the time. He'd been proud, in fact—what better sort of con man than the one that had no patterns, no habits, no flaws? Who more able to become someone else than a person who could disappear without a trace?

* * * * * 

Eames opens his eyes to Arthur seated on the edge of the bed in his boxers. Arthur's watching him. "H'llo," Eames musters, after a moment.

"Morning," Arthur says, hushed. His expression is difficult to read. "You looked like you were dreaming."

"I was." Eames rubs the crust from his eyes. 

"You still have natural dreams?"

"Rarely. Once every few months or so." Eames pauses; there's an unmistakable yearning in Arthur's eyes, now. "You don't?"

"Not since the first time I came into contact with Somnacin, almost a decade ago," Arthur says. "What's it like?"

"Confusing. I keep expecting to be able to take control, change things." Eames chuckles softly. "But nothing follows the rules I set out. Natural consequences don’t flow from actions the way I want them to."

Arthur puts a hand on Eames' stomach, bare where the covers have slipped off. "I didn't know you got confused."

Eames' brow furrows slightly as he tries to keep his abdominal muscles tight. "Of course I do."

"You always seem so certain of everything." Arthur traces the line of a tattoo, then stands. "You in the mood for eggs? I could scramble a couple while you hop in the shower and brush your teeth."

Eames sits up."I didn't bring a toothbrush."

"I found an extra in the cabinet and left it on the sink," Arthur says. "There are also clean towels and soap—use whatever you want."

The toothbrush is, as promised, set out next to an unopened package of toothpaste. The toothbrush is a rather pleasant shade of red and both happen to be from Eames' usual brands. He didn't think they were popular in the States, but maybe he was wrong about that.

He comes out of the shower to the smell of burning and Arthur frantically dowsing the egg pan in milk. The end result is mostly edible when Eames covers it in ketchup and gulps it down with coffee.

"Is something caught in my teeth?" Eames asks when he catches Arthur watching him, his own plate of eggs largely untouched.

"No, it's just—" Arthur looks away and then back again, almost shyly. "You're still here."


	3. The Lounge

Developing the backgrounds, personalities, looks and wardrobe for seven individual characters takes longer than Eames anticipated. They'd budgeted four months, but they're already entering their sixth. Rarely has Eames had to work up so many characters from scratch, much less try to wrangle them into workable projections.

Not that the extended timeline is a problem—they both have enough money to live comfortably for at least a decade after the inception job (barring any poorly made large investments on Arthur's part and Eames refraining from gambling). Their office operating expenses are relatively modest, and Rosalina gives them a volume discount on their Somnacin supply.

It's very much like the other nine-to-five jobs Eames has had over the years, except this time he hasn't a role to play or information to steal. He's not entirely sure whether he likes that or not.

* * * * * 

Eames drops the fedora he's holding on his head at an angle and executes a perfect pirouette. The effect is probably not quite the same as when he's clad in a voluptuous blonde, but Arthur doesn't seem off put by it. When he straddles the chair Arthur's seated in, Arthur smiles up at him, amused. "You're in a good mood."

"I am." Eames takes off the hat and places it Arthur's head. "It's because I have something to show you."

"Is it your dick?" Arthur asks, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "Because I'm a fan, but I have seen it before."

"Close, but not quite," Eames says, and leaves room for a dramatic beat. "I've finished Ms. Scarlett."

Arthur's eyebrows shoot up. "I thought you had a ways to go on that. Something about daddy issues and complex psychology—"

"I had a creative breakthrough at the deli," Eames says, unable to suppress his raw excitement. It's all rather unbecoming, really, but he can't stop himself. "I want to show you."

"What about dinner?" Arthur asks. "I went through some backbreaking labor placing that sushi order online…"

"The sushi won't be arriving for another half hour at least," Eames says. "All I need is fifteen minutes with the PASIV. Ten, even."

"Okay." Arthur puts down the set of blueprints he was reading. "Ms. Scarlett it is."

* * * * * 

Eames is seated in front of a vanity.

Arthur stands behind him, exquisite in his lovely dark suit, and smiles. "Hi."

"Hello," Eames says, and begins to change. He allows the changes to flow over the body gradually rather than all at once to heighten the effect, enjoying the way Arthur's eyes widen. He starts with the feet, shifting from his usual pleated trousers to slender legs clad only in thigh-high stockings that don't quite reach the bottom of his dark mini dress. The changes continue upwards, from one arm to the next, through his chest and then finally, finally, the crowning glory of Ms. Scarlett's face.

"Amazing," Arthur says softly, hands slightly hesitant as he touches Eames' shoulder, tucks a curl of silky blonde hair behind Eames' ear.

Eames watches Arthur's gaze roam across his face: the porcelain skin, the pert nose, the lips a trace too thin to be sultry but rouged to great effect. "I try," Eames says, and the words emerge as a throaty female purr, calibrated for maximum sexual appeal.

Arthur's lips part slightly. "Do you mind if I…"

"Take liberties?" Eames takes Arthur's hands and places them on Ms. Scarlett's impossibly narrow waist. Eames looks up at Arthur from under his eyelashes, wonders whether Arthur will grab at his tits or arse first.

Arthur goes for neither, hands staying firmly in the region of Eames' waist until Eames grows impatient and turns to kiss him. "You even smell different," Arthur says, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

"Did you doubt my thoroughness?" Eames stands, sweeping his fingers—thinner, finer, tipped in deep red nails—across the expanse of Arthur's chest. He feels himself sinking deeper into character and decides to allow it, content to play along as long as Arthur cares to.

"How thorough?" Arthur's voice is a breath against Scarlett's ear, so deep it causes her to shiver minutely.

Scarlett kicks the chair aside and presses forward until one leg is threaded between Arthur's, rolls her hips so that his groin slides against the hard muscle of Arthur's thigh. "Perhaps you can investigate."

"God." Arthur kisses her again, harder, as he slips a hand under her skirt and encounters no panties. "You're not—you don't—"

"I don't," Scarlett agrees as she kisses Arthur back. She drags a leg up to hook around Arthur's waist and thrusts into his fingers.

"You are so—" Arthur devours her mouth for a long, frenzied minute before pulling back, panting. "I want to eat you out. Do you think you could—can you come if I—"

Scarlett swallows and tries to catch her breath, focus. "But of course."

"Okay." Arthur kisses her once more before lifting her up by the thighs and tipping her backwards onto a bed that hadn't been there a second ago. She lands with a surprised _oh!_ and barely has a moment to adjust before Arthur is kneeling between her legs, kissing up the inside of her thighs.

The first sweep of Arthur's tongue over her clit is electric, stunning in how good it feels. He begins gently, careful sweeps and curls while she does her best not to squirm, to hold still. Arthur puts his hands on her hips and lifts her legs onto his shoulders. Says, "Squeeze if you want. I can take it."

It's not the words that make her shudder so much as the intensity in Arthur's eyes. Even when he ducks down again to lick past the clit, suck lightly on the outer folds of her labia, his eyes remaining focused on Scarlett's face.

She tries to keep her legs spread wide as Arthur runs his tongue along the edges of her cunt, tries to keep her back from arching and arse from curling into the mattress. But it's no use when Arthur begins to flicks his tongue backwards and forwards, gaze trained on her face for reaction. Scarlett's thighs clamp inwards, desperate to keep hold of the beautiful, intoxicating sensations. Her hips jerk forward of their own accord when Arthur begins to batter his tongue softly, expertly coaxing waves of pleasure so intense she can hardly breathe with it, much less make a sound.

The first orgasm comes like a tidal wave, building and building until Scarlett can hardly bear it, finally crashing as she twists this way and that. Arthur holds on gamely, tongue and lips and mouth unrelenting as he pushes past her oversensitivity into another climax, and then another, and another.

Scarlett doesn't know how many orgasms Arthur wrings from her, can hardly move or speak when Arthur finally lets up, nuzzling her lower abdomen with fluid-slick cheeks. While she tries to catch her breath, she's vaguely aware of the tingling oversensitivity of her cunt, the soreness of her vocal cords from shouting.

"Arthur," she rasps, hooking two fingers under his chin and pulling insistently until he comes up, leaning down over her with hungry eyes. "That was—"

"Can I eat out your ass?" Arthur asks, and it takes Scarlett a long minute to parse the meaning of those words. "You're so gorgeous and you smell, you taste—"

"Are you—" _sure_ , she means to ask, but the restless drag of Arthur's rock hard cock against her thigh is answer enough.

"I won't if you don't want me to," Arthur says, voice hoarse. "I can—we can—"

"Yes," she says, dragging him down for a kiss before letting him go.

It's not the overwhelming intensity of before, which is somewhat disappointing but mostly a relief. It still feels marvelous though, Arthur's tongue agile, adept, and it's made even better by his obvious enthusiasm, the way he moans and sends vibrations throughout her lower body.

Eventually, she drags Arthur up by the collar, marveling at his glassy expression, the way his hair has gone loose around his face. "Fuck me," she commands, and Arthur complies.

It's fantastic. Arthur is rock hard and perfect, doesn't hold back, doesn't come until Scarlett has, twice. When he comes, she cradles him through it, kisses his exhausted face as he sags on top of her. He's bigger than her, the weight and size of him comforting on top of her, anchoring her in place.

* * * * * 

When they wake up, Arthur smiles at Eames with heavy-lidded eyes. "I… wasn't expecting that."

"No, indeed," Eames says, and goes to touch his hair before realizing he hardly has any. "You were quite enthusiastic."

Arthur chuckles a little self-consciously. "It's been a while since I've slept with a woman. Even before we started dating."

Eames stares at Arthur blankly as the implications of that statement sink in. "Are we—are you exclusively—"

"Oh, uh." Arthur reddens and it'd be adorable if it weren't for the sudden and frantic pounding of Eames' heart, the rushing sound in his ears. "No, I know we haven't. We haven't really talked about that so I wouldn't—I mean, I'm not expecting you to be—"

"This isn't what I signed up for," Eames says, sitting up so quickly the line to the PASIV goes taut with his arm. "A job is one thing, and sex is enjoyable, but the two together aren't a guarantee that I—"

"I know, Eames, I wasn't—" Arthur puts his hands up, placating, as his shoulders droop slightly. "I'm not trying to trap you with this job or anything else, okay? We're just—enjoying each other's company. That's all."

"I should go," Eames says, wrangling himself loose from the PASIV, nearly pulling it off the table in his haste to stand. "I need a personal day, I think. A sick day, perhaps."

There's a long silence where he pointedly does not look up from rolling down his cuffs. At long last, Arthur says, "Yeah. Of course. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"It's the weekend," Eames says, still not looking up.

"Right, yeah." Arthur pauses. "I'll see you next week, then."

"Cheers," Eames says, and bolts.

* * * * * 

Eames goes to the closest bar he can find and orders a whiskey on the rocks. The bar's a dive so the drink he gets back isn't a good one, but it hardly matters at this point.

Several of the patrons—along with the bartender—eye him none-too-subtly, and Eames contemplates going home with one of them. He could do it with hardly any trouble, have some mediocre sex and be back at his flat in less than three hours. He could.

He supposes he shouldn't be surprised by Arthur's feelings. Dozens of people have fallen in love with him, countless more in lust. If Arthur were a mark, Eames would be very concerned if Arthur hadn't started some sort of falling by this point.

But every con has a shelf-life, an ultimate expiration date. Eames can tolerate most anything or anyone so long as he knows it won't last forever, but this thing with Arthur, it could potentially, he could—

Eames finishes his drink and orders another.

* * * * * 

When Eames steps into the office on Monday the following week, Arthur looks up from organizing the anemically stocked bookshelf they have in the waiting area, relief visible. "Eames," he says, book held in mid-air.

"Good morning, Arthur," Eames says, keeping his own facial expressions bland, under strict control.

"I wasn't sure you'd come." The way the book wavers in Arthur's hand is his only tell.

"Of course," Eames says, setting off towards the bathroom without glancing back. "We have work to do."

* * * * * 

In times of emotional upheaval, Eames retreats into his work. It's a relief to turn attention away from his own (clearly unresolved) issues and onto those of his characters. As a result, the designs are coming together in rapid succession: haughty Ms. Peacock, doddering Colonel Mustard, frazzled Ms. White.

He's in the midst of sketching out the profiles for Ms. White's two children when he hears a knock on his door. Eames contemplates, for a split second, pretending he's not there. But just as quickly he dismisses that ridiculous notion and tells himself to man up: Arthur's not going to simply go away because Eames wishes it.

"Come in," Eames says, doing his best to sound distracted and busy.

"Hey," Arthur says, opening the door a cautious few inches. "Is this a bad time?"

"It's not exactly ideal," Eames says, and feels something constrict round his lungs when Arthur flinches. "Though I suppose I could use a few minutes' break. Come in."

"You—you left your fedora." Arthur holds up the hat. "Last week."

"Keep it," Eames says. "It looks better on you, anyway."

"Eames." Arthur takes a deep breath. "Are we going to talk about this? About what happened?"

"Not yet," Eames says, surprising himself and Arthur both with his words. "We can shag, or not, if you don't care to. But I can't—I don't want to talk right now."

Arthur's face goes shuttered and quiet. "Yeah," he says as he backs out of Eames' office. "I guess I'll leave you to your work, then."

* * * * * 

Arthur spends the rest of the day locked in his own office, conspicuously avoiding any common areas when Eames might be wandering about. Eames eats his lunch alone and is struck by how bizarre it is that he'd grown used to spending his meals with Arthur so quickly; he'd spent a lifetime before that eating alone.

After work, he drives home and sits in front of the telly. He watches a lot during the weekend: inane sitcoms, dull nature documentaries, overblown soap operas. 

On Sunday night, Eames turns on the television in time to catch a climactic moment in a _telenovela_ with a beautiful woman rendered raccoon-like through fake tears. His Spanish is spotty, but as near as he can tell, the issue she's crying about seems to stem from a case of mistaken identity and possibly an evil baby twin.

A man comes on the screen, slim, with slicked-back hair. He looks nothing like Arthur, but when Eames allows his eyelids to slip to half-mast and palms his cock through his trousers, it's not so difficult to pretend.

* * * * * 

The next week passes uneventfully. Eames puts the finishing touches on the rest of his characters: bookish Professor Plum, duplicitous Mr. Green, and hapless Mr. Boddy. Arthur seems hard at work as well, careful to give Eames as much space as possible when sharing a workspace together.

At the end of the week, Eames gathers his character profiles and shows them to Arthur. 

"I've made the baseline model of these characters American because I'm assuming our prospective clients will mostly be from the US. They'll likely find the familiarity comforting," Eames explains as Arthur examines the papers. "But accents are a relatively easy thing to modify, and I've created enough room within their backgrounds to allow a broad range of nationalities."

"Good idea. Built-in adaptability, in case we get different types of customers." Arthur says. "Can you do other languages?"

"French passably, and possibly Mandarin though it's heavily accented. I wouldn't rely on my Spanish."

"Fair enough." Arthur nods, polite but distant. "Well done, Eames. I should be finished with all the secret tunnels and entrances by the middle of next week, which means we should be able to start doing full run-throughs relatively soon."

"Good." Eames hesitates, then says, "Would you like to see the characters in person?"

Arthur raises his eyebrows, clearly remembering what happened the last time they went into a dream together. He doesn't say no, though.

* * * * * 

The dream setting is pastoral, a field of wildflowers filled with sunshine and butterflies and a large, oval mirror in the middle of it all. Arthur must be more tired of envisioning dark tunnels and musty passages than he let on.

Eames runs through all seven of his characters, taking care not to linger overlong on Scarlett. Arthur watches attentively, face schooled into a mildly interested mask that doesn't waver. Eames has been a conman virtually his entire life, but he supposes Arthur isn't exactly new to the game either. Arthur, who'd always been so open and expressive with Eames—even when they were at each others' throats, years ago.

The last character he shows Arthur is Professor Plum: lean and rangy, nearly awkward but not quite. He's handsome but approachably so, with curious green eyes and deep auburn hair that's kept messy and a touch too long. 

Plum is awestruck by Arthur, who is gorgeous, movie star gorgeous. He says as much accidentally—he gets chatty when he's nervous—and Arthur smiles at him. 

"You're cute," Arthur says, and Plum blushes. He can't imagine it's a pretty sight in combination with his freckles, but Arthur doesn't seem to mind. Plum feels Arthur's gaze upon his face, seeming fascinated with every detail, even as his smile fades. "Maybe we should—"

Plum closes the distance between them and kisses him before he can finish the statement. Arthur freezes. "I don't know if—"

"We can do whatever you want," Plum says, an edge of desperation in his desire to make Arthur stay. "I'm very—I've been told I'm very flexible."

Arthur doesn't move or say anything for a long minute, and Plum stays perfectly still, terrified that he's blown it. At last, Arthur says, "Yeah."

Plum kisses Arthur, grateful for the chance to continue, and vows to make it wonderful—as good for Arthur as he can make it. Arthur kisses him back and doesn't stop him.

* * * * * 

Plum—no, _Eames_ —wakes up stiff. The chaise lounges are comfortable, but something about Somnacin-induced sleep always aggravates the bad spot in Eames' back, the place where a bullet ripped through his innards and left him bleeding out in a yurt. It was a miracle he survived, the doctor had said, though it doesn't feel like a miracle now.

On the other side of the PASIV, Arthur stirs. When he opens his eyes, his gaze settles on Eames, lips pinching thin. Eames should be able to read his expression but he's distracted by the curve of Arthur's jaw, his dark lashes.

"Eames—"

Eames pulls the line from his wrist and stands. "While we're here, we should really focus on work."

Arthur falls silent, and watches Eames leave.

* * * * * 

Things change little around the office. Arthur keeps mostly to himself aside from their dream run-throughs, which happen rather frequently now that the characters, settings, and storylines have been developed. Arthur always arrives earlier and stays later than Eames, which means that days go by with only minimal interaction. Eames is—he's grateful for this, he supposes.

In the dream rehearsals, they make good progress. The characters he's created have successfully transitioned into projections that more or less adhere to the personality traits he sketched out. Arthur has learned to control his projection versions somewhat, but it hardly matters when Eames is going to be forging the murderer, whoever they happen to be for that game.

At the end of each rehearsal, Arthur will wordlessly pull Eames into a kiss. Eames is always wearing someone else—Ms. Scarlett, Professor Plum, Colonel Mustard. Whoever it is kisses back; Scarlett finds Arthur to be an excellent fuck, Mustard loves the way Arthur's mouth looks wrapped around his cock, and Professor Plum is absolutely smitten.

Arthur doesn't say much when they're together, a fact that makes Plum nervous even as he drags Arthur into one of the many bedrooms in Mr. Boddy's mansion. They kiss and they kiss until Arthur guides Plum back onto the bed, helps him strip and bends down to mouth at his cock.

"Wait," Plum says, stopping him. "I want to—I was hoping I could come with you inside me."

Arthur looks up at Plum, heartbreakingly gorgeous, and says, "Whatever you want."

Plum hooks his ankles around Arthur's back as Arthur eases inside, gentle and so sweet. Arthur puts a hand on Plum's cock as he begins to move, slow rolls of his hips that make Plum sigh and moan softly. He doesn't take long to come, not with Arthur's solicitous hand and unerring thrusts, and sinks back into the mattress, content.

"You okay?" Arthur asks, stroking the hair from Plum's face.

"Wonderful," Plum replies, kissing Arthur's sweaty brow, his cheeks, his parted lips. "You can go as hard as you'd like."

Arthur stares down at Plum and the look in his eyes is strange, as if he's not seeing Plum at all. "You're amazing."

Those words stir a memory, familiar and confusing for Plum. It takes him—them—a moment to sift through lies and truth before Eames comes back to himself, surfaces with a start. Arthur's on top of him, over him, inside him—the rock of his hips achingly slow.

Eames gasps and turns his face away, submerges himself. Plum reappears, and Arthur cups his face with some concern.

"Hey," Arthur says. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I was thinking about how good it'll feel when you come." Plum squeezes his legs, feels Arthur's hips stutter in their rhythm. He's here with Arthur now—that's all that matters.

"God," Arthur mutters, voice hoarse as he drops his head down to rest against the center of Plum's chest.

Arthur doesn't last much longer after that, thrusts growing shorter and more staccato as he gets closer to the edge. Plum kisses him through it, strokes his overheated back and rolls his hips in encouragement, urges Arthur forward. 

It feels so wonderful when Arthur comes, so overwhelmingly satisfying that Plum can't help himself and whispers, "I love you."

As soon as the words leave his lips, Plum knows he's made a terrible mistake. Arthur jerks back, eyes wide and horrified. Before Plum can say anything else, Arthur lifts a gun to his head and pulls the trigger.

* * * * * 

When Eames wakes up, Arthur is already gone. 


	4. The Library

Eames doesn't have a permanent residence. His family—such as it is—all believe him to be deceased. He's rented flats, villas, cabanas, and so forth—filled them with possessions appropriate to the part he's playing in whatever con he's running, and left them behind once the job was done. He's never stayed in one place for longer than a year, and he's certainly never rented a flat as Eames, dreamshare operative, for longer than six months.

He receives job offers in both the dreamshare world and the normal criminal one on a weekly basis. Jobs with high payouts, excellent locales, easy work. He's always believed that staying in one place for too long would lead to boredom, stagnation, atrophy.

But it's been close to seven months he's been living in San Francisco, nearly nine if he counts the time before that he's spent dancing with Arthur, studiously avoiding the question of what it might all mean. The work is interesting enough, but this isn't like him. Eames should have transformed into someone else outside of dreams by now, should have left months ago.

He goes to three bars and picks up five different people. They offer no clarity.

* * * * * 

San Francisco, much like London, is perpetually enveloped in a shroud of fog, even when the sun hovers somewhere overhead. A little mist has never bothered Eames, but this time when he leaves work the gentle rain of the morning has morphed into an evening downpour.

"Bloody hell," Eames mutters reaches for his umbrella and realizes he left it inside the office. He trudges back inside and notes Arthur's door is ajar. Nothing seems amiss, but years of experience have taught Eames that the failure to be careful costs far more than a few minutes of feeling foolish or paranoid.

The room is empty, but Arthur's coat is still there. Eames stops into his own office to pick up his umbrella and readies himself for attack. He checks the bathroom, the break room, and then, finally, the back where the chaise lounges reside. 

That's where he discovers Arthur, asleep and hooked up to the PASIV. After a brief internal debate, Eames takes a line and settles on the other lounge.

He opens his eyes to a large room filled with projections. There are circular dining tables, a buffet line, and a jazz band playing onstage. Eames glances round for windows to orient himself, but all he can see through them is a nondescript night sky—no clue as to where he is or what's going on. Arthur is nowhere in sight.

As Eames heads towards an exit, a projection—broad, handsome, resplendent in a grey suit and lavender shirt—bumps into him. "In a hurry?" the projection asks, teasing. His accent is American.

"I'm looking for Arthur," Eames says; no point beating around the bush. "Have you seen him?"

"Out on the deck," the projection replies. 

Eames takes a second look at the projection, notices the patches on his elbows. He's certain that they've never met—in the waking world, at least—but there's something familiar all the same. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. My name is Eames."

"Dyson Booker," the projection says, holding out a hand to shake. 

Now Eames remembers: he's seen Dr. Booker's photograph on the inside cover of several bestselling books. "You're the one doing research on therapeutic applications for dreamshare."

Dr. Booker inclines his head to one side. "You've read my work."

"Arthur keeps On Dreamwork and Identity and Reviewing Subconscious Representations in the office."

"He was an early supporter." Dr. Booker smiles, enigmatic and somehow sad. "Anyway, you probably shouldn’t keep him waiting for much longer."

"He's not expecting me."

"We both know that's not what I'm talking about," the projection says as he disappears into the crowd.

When Eames exits the dining room, it's dark and relatively empty outside, only a few projections wandering about on what appears to be a large cruise ship deck, looking out onto the ocean below. There's a lone male couple at the very front of the ship. One of them is clad in tailored menswear Eames would recognize anywhere.

Arthur's leaning on the railing, looking out at the ocean and conversing quietly with a blond man beside him. The man is a bit stockier than he, in a looser cut suit, and the rhythm of their voices is familiar. Eames can't hear the specifics of what they're saying, but it all seems pleasantly mundane: a discussion of the weather, their days, plans for the weekend.

They're standing close enough together that the acquaintance is clearly more than friendly, but aside from Arthur's hand on the small of the projection's back, there's no other touching, nothing overtly sexual. 

They laugh, and Eames catches the tail end of what is unmistakably his own voice saying, low and fond, "…all my secrets." It's Eames—or at least, Arthur's projection of him.

"All of them?" Arthur says. "I feel like I could be digging for decades and never reach an end."

"You love the challenge." Eames knows what he sounds like, but the tone in the projection's voice is a warm murmur he nearly doesn't recognize.

"Yeah, I guess I do." Arthur pauses. "I miss this."

"Moonlit cruises round the world?"

There's no laughter in Arthur's words. "I miss you. Talking to you and—everything we had before it all went sideways."

"Darling." The projection leans in to rest his head against Arthur's shoulder. "It's going to be alright."

"Don't lie to me," Arthur says. "This is hard enough already."

"You think I'd lie to you?" The projection's voice is all studied innocence.

"Constantly," Arthur says. He doesn't sound angry, only resigned. "I thought I could live with it, but I don't know how much longer I can."

They both go quiet after that, staring out at the water together. Eames backs away from the scene, finds an empty part of the deck, and kicks himself out of the dream.

* * * * * 

Beta testing of the game with a sample client begins. Rosalina is their guinea pig, one that grouses in a raspy voice and smells of tobacco even in dreams.

It's slow going, Arthur having to stop the dream after every clue Rosalina discovers in order to notate whether it's easy to understand and interpret or hopelessly cryptic. Scarlett is the murderer in this particular scenario—having killed Mr. Boddy to prevent the knowledge he had about her past from becoming public—and it takes Eames a while to work out the proper amount of suspicious behavior Scarlett should be exhibiting in order to arouse Rosalina's curiosity.

At the end of a long work day, however, Rosalina has successfully determined that Scarlett is the killer, Eames has a good idea of what sorts of things he should be doing to pique a client's suspicions, and Arthur has a moleskin full of notes on things to change.

Rosalina excuses herself for a cigarette break and kicks out of the dream, leaving Arthur and Eames, still dressed as Scarlett.

"Earth to Arthur," Scarlett says, voice sing-song as she waves a hand in front of Arthur's face. "Do you read me?" 

Arthur comes back from staring distractedly out of the window with a start. "What? Yeah, I'm here."

"Something on your mind?" she asks, sashaying up to him with a bat of her eyes.

"It's all coming together. I almost can't believe it."

She cocks her head to one side. "Why not?"

Arthur gives her a searching look. "Do you really want to know?"

"Of course I do." She puts a hand on his arm. "Why else would I ask?"

"I've always been the point man, the architect, the support. Not the extractor actually getting in there to steal the secret. Not even the client, calling shots." He inhales deeply. "But if we can get some customers, get this up and running—I'll have finally done something I can call mine."

Scarlett studies Arthur, the seeming youthfulness of his face disguising the years he's worked, the fact that he's nothing like a boy at all. "Even if this doesn't catch on, there are always other projects. Other jobs."

"When I first started out in dreamshare, I didn't think I'd ever want to settle down in one place," he says. "I thought I'd hate working out of an office, seeing the same stuff over and over. But after so many years of running from this botched extraction or that pissed off client, all I can think about is how nice it is to wake up somewhere familiar, next to someone you can trust."

Scarlett sees the tips of her fingers flicker into something undeniably male. "And this company, this project is your way into that life?"

"I don't want to trap you, Eames," Arthur says, sounding unbearably weary as he abandons all pretenses. "The project's almost done and if you want to leave after that, I'll understand. I can hire a new forger to take over the roles, and I'll pay you the agreed upon percentage for every client that signs up as long as the company is in business."

"Arthur," Eames says, but his throat constricts. He doesn't know what he wants to say.

"It's alright," Arthur says, finally turning to look at Eames. "We don't need to pretend anymore."

Eames grabs Arthur by the wrist before he can bring the pistol to his head. "What made you follow Cobb?" He doesn't know why he asks, nor why his arm begins to shimmer from Ms. Scarlett's to Colonel Mustard's to Professor Plum's. "What was it about him?"

Arthur seems surprised by the question, and for a moment it seems as though he's going to brush it off, perhaps lie. Ultimately, though, he settles on the truth. "We were friends, and we'd worked together before," Arthur says. "After Dyson—my ex—called off our engagement, Cobb was the only one of our mutual friends still willing to talk to me."

"Dr. Booker is…" Eames trails off, mind whirling. He'd imagined Arthur's fiancé as sweet and adoring, bookish and slightly in awe of Arthur. Not someone broad and handsome, coolly self-assured and more than a little smug.

"That was a long time ago, Eames," Arthur says. "He's married to someone else now."

Music begins to play before Eames can come up with a response to that.


	5. The Study

Eames takes a deep breath, hand hovering in the air above Arthur's office door. He drops his hand, knocks three times. 

After a pause that feels like millennia, Arthur invites him in.

"Is there something you need?" Arthur asks. He looks tired; the past few weeks of beta testing have been long, filled with a frustrating series of trial and error. Things are not progressing as quickly as they had hoped. Meanwhile, Rosalina's jetting off to the Bahamas for a vacation at the end of the week—meaning they either wrap up this phase of beta testing with her or have to find a new test subject.

"I was wondering if you might be interested in dinner," Eames says. He doesn't move to take a seat. His fedora is still sitting on the top right corner of Arthur's desk, by the lamp.

"Oh." Arthur rubs his eyes. "Yeah, if you're going to order something, email me the menu and I'll—"

"No, I meant." Eames clears his throat. "I'm making dinner tonight at mine. Duck _à l'orange_ is much better with company."

"I—" Arthur looks at the multitude of notes and papers piled across his desk. "I need to stay late tonight to catch up."

"Come whenever you're ready," Eames says, not sure if this is Arthur's way of saying no. "I won't be starting dinner till eight, at least. Do you remember how to get to my flat?"

Arthur glances up at Eames, expression uncertain, but nods. "Yeah."

"Eight, then," Eames says as he turns to go. He can feel Arthur's gaze following him the whole way out.

* * * * * 

Eames prepares dinner, enough for two; he'll eat the leftovers for lunch, he tells himself. He sets the table with linens, dishes, silverware, and tells himself it's because he enjoys a civilized atmosphere when he eats. He sets out two place settings, because a place setting for one would be strange. 

At eight o'clock, Eames looks at the clock and pretends not to. Arthur is always punctual. Annoyingly so. Which probably means-- 

Eames stands, turns on the radio to the only station that isn't scratchy with static: smooth jazz. Better than eating alone in silence. 

He's carried the food out to the dining table when the doorbell rings. Eames' heart leaps into his throat as he glances at the clock: five past eight. 

Arthur stands at the door with a bottle of Merlot. His hair is freshly slicked back and the tie he's wearing is a different color than what he had on at the office. He looks painfully handsome. 

"Sorry I'm late," he says as Eames lets him in. "I got a call, and then I was nearly run down by this biker—"

"It's alright. I was finishing up the duck." 

"I didn't want you to think—" Arthur stops. "I brought wine."

"Thank you." Eames has to pry open Arthur's fingers, which grip the neck of the wine bottle like a vise. 

After he takes Arthur's coat and the Merlot, Eames realizes it's the first time they've touched, topside, in over a month.

Arthur takes a seat in the dining room, drains a wine glass and begins pouring another.

"We're starting with a salad of Spinach, arugula, and heirloom cherry tomatoes. The dressing is an extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar finished with cracked pepper and sea salt. The soup is fresh tomato basil accompanied by oatmeal sourdough rolls," Eames says. " _Bon appétit_."

"Wow," Arthur says as he surveys the table. "This is—everything sounds delicious."

"The soup will cool relatively quickly if you'd like to start there."

Arthur tastes the soup and his eyes widen. "This is phenomenal." Eames can see the question, _where did you learn to cook like this_ , resting on the tip of Arthur's tongue before he bites it back. Arthur swallows another large spoonful of soup instead.

"I," Eames swallows down the unease rising in his throat, the instinct to hold back anything that could be used against him. "I impersonated a Sous-chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant during one of my earliest jobs. It was utterly wretched—even worse than sleeping with the mark, who was an enormous, sweaty oaf—but I learned an incredible amount about food."

When Eames looks up, he finds Arthur staring at him. "In all the years we've known each other, I think that's the most you've ever voluntarily told me about yourself."

Eames runs his tongue over the front of his teeth. Anxious, he identifies the emotion as. He's anxious. "Most of my life can be summarized in a series of stories like the one I just told you: working a con, pretending to be someone else, seducing a mark. I've been hundreds of people by now."

"What if I asked you who you were before the cons?" 

Eames drinks his soup and notes distantly that the consistency isn't quite what he'd hoped it would be. "I've been 'Eames' ever since I left the military."

"I know," Arthur says, gently. "Who were you before you became 'Eames'?"

Eames reaches back to memories he tucked away long ago, ones he hasn't examined in decades. "I was the bastard son of a member of the peerage," Eames starts. "And a Hungarian maid whose service was no longer required once she began to show."

Arthur puts down his soup spoon. "You said your mother died."

"She did. My father took me in, rather reluctantly," Eames says. "He brought me back to his home and instructed his wife to raise me in addition to their two legitimate children."

"I'm guessing it wasn't exactly happy families after that."

"No, though I could hardly blame Margaret on that score. I was the ever present reminder of Haytham's—that is, my father's—infidelity." Eames expects the memories to sting, but the emotions surrounding them have faded as well, discolored and blurred. "My mother certainly wasn't his only affair, nor was it the last time a mistress bore him a child. To date, I have at least five other half-siblings that I know of."

"Jesus," Arthur says. "Don't tell me your family took your father's bullshit out on you."

"Who else was there to target?" Eames lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "The rest of Haytham's indiscretions had the decency not to die before he could pay them to disappear. Margaret wasn't naïve enough to think there weren't others, but at least she didn't have to see them every day."

"She should have left."

"Perhaps she would have, if she'd been younger," Eames says. "When I came onto the horizon, Margaret's looks were already on the decline. I suspect she didn't fancy her chances of landing another man as wealthy as my father, particularly with two children in tow."

Arthur reaches across the table to tug Eames' fingers away from his wineglass. "I'm sorry you had to go through that." Arthur squeezes his hand. "It sounds horrific."

Eames studies Arthur's hand in his. This marks the second time they've touched in over a month. He stands. "I should fetch the duck."

As they eat the main course, Eames tells Arthur other bits and pieces of his past, haltingly: his favorite color as a boy (pink), the first time someone told him what a pretty mouth he had (age thirteen), the way he'd felt on the day he left the military (free). Arthur simply listens, attentive and quiet. Curious, but restrained.

"Would you like dessert?" Eames asks, and then realizes the possible implications of that query. "I have tiramisu prepared, as well as several flavors of gelato."

"I think I’m okay for now," Arthur says with a small smile.

He insists on helping to clear the table, places all the dishes in the sink and offers to wash up. Eames declines and pins him against the counter with a kiss.

For ten beautiful seconds, Arthur kisses back. Then he stops. "Eames."

Eames takes a step away, almost lightheaded. He's shocked by how much he missed this. "I see."

"No, you don't." Arthur touches Eames' cheek. "What are we doing here?"

"We can do whatever you want." It comes out glib, but Eames means it honestly.

"I'm not some random mark," Arthur says. "We don't always have to do what I want."

"I don't think of you as a mark. But I just don't know how else to…" Eames trails off.

"There's always so much you never say." Arthur rests his palm on Eames' chest, over his heart. "You don't have to tell me everything, but maybe you could start by telling me what you want."

"I would like it if—" the words taste strange on Eames' tongue. "If you could stay over tonight. And perhaps tomorrow, or sometime during the weekend, we could—talk more."

Arthur smiles, tentative but happy. Eames thinks, from the answering warmth that grows inside him, that he might be happy, too.

fin


End file.
